


Working It Out

by Mab (Mab_Browne)



Series: Working It Out [3]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:58:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mab_Browne/pseuds/Mab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair may be panicking, but Jim isn't.  A sequel to Not Going to Work.</p><p>Posted February 2007 at 852 Prospect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Working It Out

**Author's Note:**

> Original story notes from 852 are in the body of the work.

Well, like I said in 'Not Going to Work' never assume. But this is it for now.

* * *

I've just brought the laundry up from the basement when Sandburg jitters in. He eyes me, and the pile of clothes being swiftly sorted and folded on the table, and says, "Hey." 

I nod. "Chief." 

"Got home early today?" he asks. 

God and criminal psychopaths willing, I thought that this might be an evening to be in. I've been waiting a while for Sandburg to show up so I've been very domestic to pass the time and give myself something to do. Cooked a halfway decent meal, cleaned up after it all, did this laundry that right now I'm folding with neat precision. Just like the little woman waiting for the roving husband to get in. Your average jealous spouse would probably kill for my surveillance advantages, but I think most of them would pass on this set of circumstances. 

"There's food," I tell him. "Should be okay reheated." 

He's not really looking at me now. "Yeah, thanks, man." 

He eats it, more or less, sitting in his room before bringing out the plate and tidying everything away. He moves quickly, suppressed energy coming out in the way he wields the dish cloth. I wonder how much he ate during the day. It's pretty normal for him to forget to eat, like he forgets to sleep, and then he has these binges of food and zees to refresh him for the next attack on life. He's quiet in his sleep, but it's not like I can't hear what I need to. 

I realise that for all his bravado last night, I'm going to have to start this - standing tall because there's only so much ground I'm willing to give up. "Can we get this over with, Sandburg?" 

He looks up at me then. His face is as blank as I've ever seen it, which is totally unnatural. Last night's mood is past. He's nervous now, but tamping it down behind meditational calm. The little shit only does that when he thinks I need humouring. 

"So what do we need to get over with?" And fuck the Socratic method. 

"I'm sorry, okay? It won't happen again." 

"That's good to hear, but my mind is still pretty blown that it happened at all." 

Not half as much as mine is, Sandburg. Trust me on this. But I don't say anything, I shrug instead. 

"I mean, what the hell was all that about?" His hands wave in incomprehension. "How many times were you spying on me? Because it damn well better not happen again, that was totally beyond the pale." 

My head is up, and my jaw is out, all the better to look down my nose at you, my dear. Guess I've been as conciliatory as I'm going to be this evening. "I told you, Sandburg. It won't happen again." 

He nods his head decisively. "Good. That's good, Jim." 

He turns back to his room, and I know that my little fantasies aren't coming true. Sandburg doesn't want to think or ask about this, and I can feel the anger boiling up. Not so interested in the weird sentinel stuff when it gets you right where you live, are you, Chief? 

"That's it?" I say. 

He stops, not looking at me. "What?" he snaps. 

"No long rambling questions about my potty training and how many times I jerk off, and the deep anthropological sentinel reasons for my weird ass behaviour? Just, `that's good, Jim'?" He can't miss the mockery in my tone. Hell, a five year old couldn't miss it. I'm operating about at kindergarten level right now and from the look in his face, that's registered at least. 

I take a step forward, and he takes a step back. What, baby, you don't like this dance step because you just figured out that you're not leading? 

"You've told me it won't happen again. Fine." 

"And you trust me, do you?" 

He flushes at that. 

"Gonna stay living under the same roof as the pervert, huh? Damn, Chief, you really want that PhD bad, don't you?" 

He visibly reins his temper back. He doesn't lose it often, he's too laid-back to get really pissed off - yeah, sure. But I'm pushing him hard. 

"Jim." Deep breath. "We're friends, right? And we've been living in each other's pockets for a while now, and the boundaries got a little blurred. But friends overlook aberrant behaviour, and work past conflict, y'know?" 

I'll show you aberrant behaviour, professor. All these months trying to come to terms with this shit, with the fact that I want you in my bed after a lifetime of assuming that I'm straight, and you want to generously overlook my aberrant behaviour? I don't think so. 

"So this desire to work past conflict, that would be why you didn't drag on a shirt and pants last night, and come out and rip me a new one?" 

If he was flushed before, I could warm my hands at the heat that comes off his skin now. 

"That was stupid. I was stupid." 

"You were beautiful," I blurt. I'm stupid too. 

"I...whoa! Jim, last time I checked, you and I were straight." 

"I've had to recheck my checking, Sandburg." Oh, articulate, Ellison. That'll win him over. 

He shakes his head, more in bemusement (I hope) than denial. I'd hoped that maybe I hadn't been alone in this head-trip, but I can tell that it really is all new to him - or at least that some of the implications are. He did know I was there. He did come to the window naked. He knew that I'd been getting off on listening to him, and he stood there, showing himself to me. Come on, Blair, get a fucking clue. 

I try to start again. "You knew I was there." And isn't this a piece of irony? Who wants to have that little talk now? 

"Not..." I'm ready to shoot some half-assed obfuscation down in flames, but he tells me the truth. "Yeah. I knew you were there, well, not knew precisely, but when I looked out Lianna's window and saw your truck - it wasn't exactly a surprise." He pauses. "I felt kind of a fraud when you told me how great I handled Lash. I knew you were coming, and that, that was absolutely sanity-saving." 

"And you're not all eager-beaver to figure it all out? What happened to that scientific curiosity?" 

"Because this isn't part of the deal, that's why! Jesus, Jim, I'm straight!" There's sympathy caught in with my frustration, because this deal I remember, except I did this months ago. 

"And you can't know that I'm near you and still be straight?" I get a little closer, slow and easy, trying not to spook him. Then I put out my hand and run it over his hair. I've touched his hair before, but not with this sort of deliberation. His eyes are big and getting bigger by the second. He's breathing hard, and he smells, god, he smells good. Really good. 

And then he breaks away and heads for the door. He looks back at me and his face is strained like he's just run a race. "I don't know if I can do this, man, I just...I'll be back when I'm back, okay?" And he's gone, and this apartment is empty enough to echo. 

The silence is way too loud, so I go over to the stereo, try to pick out something to listen to while I wait for him to come back. There are various of Sandburg's CDs scattered all around, and instead of listening, I set to sorting out the shelf and the rack, everything alphabetical, regardless of who owns what. If he ends up taking every thing of his out of the shelf, the spaces will be small and subtle and easier to ignore than one big gap. That's the idea, anyway. That make-work done, I actually listen to something, music by the Neville Brothers, sweet and melancholy. 

I fall asleep on the couch and when I hear him come in again it's about three in the morning. He's not particularly quiet, and when he sees me on the couch he's not surprised (again), although maybe he's exasperated. I sit up. 

"I guess it's been a busy day for you, Chief." Banalities are all I can come out with this time of the morning. 

"You could say that." He's looking at me like he's never seen me before. Not like a scientific specimen, but a puzzle. He smells of beer and marijuana, although the scent of the weed is only attached to his hair and clothes, and isn't coming off his skin. He doesn't smell like Lianna or sex, and I didn't realise how damn braced I was for that until I know I don't have to be braced any longer. 

He takes a couple of steps towards me and stops. His hands fumble to try and express something and fail. 

I don't beg. Jim Ellison doesn't beg. But wordlessly, I put my hand out to him. He hesitates so long that I'm nearly rehearsing my excuses to the Bullpen as to why Sandburg won't be hanging around, when he practically launches himself at me, and lands astride my lap. He kisses me. 

I've had better kisses. Our teeth click together with that disgusting, hollow pain, and I think that a pinch of his lip is caught against his left canine tooth. It can't be comfortable for him, but he's too busy trying to prove something to me or himself to care. I don't dare move because I'm terrified that I'll scare him off, so I lean against the hard arm across the back of my neck and let him get it out his system. He pulls away and buries his face in my shoulder. 

"Happy now?" he mutters into my shirt. His arm behind me is rigid with tension, the fingers of his hand digging into my back; the other hand grips my shoulder hard enough to hurt. 

Happy is too positive a word for this, but I'm willing to settle for being a lot less terrified. This is just the beginning and I know that as well as he does. I put my own hands in the small of his back. That gentle grounding touch works for me, I hope it'll work for him too. 

"So, Blair, buddy, friend, pal, when are we going to have that talk?" 

A long shudder runs through him as the death-grip becomes something more like a hug, and his breath puffs against my neck. "Dick," he pronounces, but I can hear the start of a smile in his voice. 

* * *

End 

Working It Out by Mab: [mabinbrowne@hotmail.com](mailto:mabinbrowne@hotmail.com)  



End file.
